


MyLock

by Zappa



Series: Lessons in Humanity [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence - A Study in Pink, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a work in progress-ish, end with A Study In Pink, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-14 21:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5759152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zappa/pseuds/Zappa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and Sherlock, brief moments through the years, until A Study In Pink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Sherlock is high, and Mycroft denies him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still getting the hang of Ao3, so bear with me! I haven't posted much, just a big reader :D  
> This work was partly inspired by this song- _Teach Me, by Keaton Henson_  
>  Thanks for all the encouragement and support!

_When Sherlock was sixteen, and Mycroft twenty-four_ , the eldest Holmes brother noticed with some surprise that his little brother would grow up to be beautiful. He was already gorgeous, in his own lanky, tangled, awkward way.

Mycroft compared the two of them constantly. He felt his own nose was too sharp, his eyes too small. He was a hawk, and Sherlock, the graceful black swan.

Fear stirred in Mycroft’s gut at this revelation, for many reasons. The greatest of all being Sherlock’s own utter denial with the fact. Transport, he would mutter, nothing more. The man had a self-loathing that ran deeper than anything Mycroft had ever seen before, and who could blame him? Constantly belittled by his fellow classmates, (they would never be considered peers) sometimes to the point of violence. Ridiculed, always the target of sadistic interest. Mycroft did his best to protect the frailty of his brother’s heart.

“Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Ignore them, they’re only jealous.”

It did little to soothe the growing resentment.

   
 

_When Sherlock was nineteen, and Mycroft twenty-seven_ , he found his little brother in a drug den for the first time.

“Sherlock, come. Come home with me.”

“Why?”

Oh, those piercing eyes, seeing all, knowing far too much. Mycroft adverted his gaze, loosened his hold on the thin wrist.

“Because. _Because_ ,” he continued with a heavy, shuddering sigh as the elder closed his own eyes, as if to block this all out. “I care about you. About your well-being.”

A smirk, pulling the much-too thin arm away. “Sure about that? I thought caring was not an advantage, Mycroft. Are you sure it doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’m destroying our family name?” He stretched, cat-like, and Mycroft opened his eyes just in time to see the thin tee-shirt slide up a fraction, exposing a pale, lean torso that caused Mycroft’s lips to twitch.

Noticing, as he always did, Sherlock gave his older brother a lazy, acknowledging grin.

“Or could it be because you just want me all to yourself?”

Mycroft inhaled a sharp breath, either from surprise or the lack thereof, no one was quite sure. He once more looked away as Sherlock sat up, gathering himself close to his big brother, as he had when they were both very young. Mycroft’s voice was barely audible. 

“Sherlock-”

“Please,” Sherlock whimpered, all facade of bravado and defying confidence gone. He was once again the lost child Mycroft had tried (and all too often failed) to shelter. Hesitantly, he placed his heavy arm around bony, frail shoulders, and felt himself breath again as Sherlock sighed, snuggling deeper under the protective wing.

They stayed like that for some time, not moving, save when Mycroft began to mindlessly run his fingers through Sherlock’s matted curls. The younger Holmes made a soft murmur of contentment that caused Mycroft’s heart to ache, and his mouth go suddenly dry.

Gently, he disengaged himself from the tangle of his brother’s limbs, and raised his head, meeting those hazy yet brilliant eyes, lost and hopeful at the same time.

And then Sherlock’s soft lips were on his own, and in a brief moment, before the shock, but after he had cataloged the taste, ( _cigarette smoke, bitter like tea, but sweet as honey _) Mycroft puled away.__

“’Lock,” he murmured, pushing the younger back by his shoulders as Sherlock tried again. “No.”

It was as if the heavens had opened in all their rage and glory, the color of Sherlock’s eyes flashing with the shades of a heavy summer storm. He ripped himself violently away, wobbling to his feet. Mycroft joined him, reaching out.

“Sherlock-” he tried, but the younger Holmes snarled, wounded by rejection, and somehow made it out of the building without falling. Mycroft knew better than to follow, so with a heavy sigh, he sat back atop the filthy, stained mattress. His fingers, shaking, he noticed, came up to briefly touch his lips before he pulled out his phone, and called for help.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second time Sherlock is high, and Mycroft accepts.

_Sherlock was __twenty-two, and Mycroft was thirty._

It has been three years. Three years of family gatherings, and Christmas dinners, polite chit-chat, and never a word. Mycroft prayed his brother had forgotten the night, that the drugs had clouded his memory, or perhaps he had erased it altogether. No such luck.

They were both well established, gleaming pillars of society, indentured servants of Her Majesty, and The Law. However, as well as they seemed publicly, both carried a personal tension inside them, coiling round and round, till one day, it would break. And one day, it did.

Their relationship had shifted, morphed. The new dynamic was Challenge. _Look at me, watch, see what I can do, I can go farther, I can climb higher, dare to try and stop me._ Always fighting for the upper hand, childish sibling rivalry the two men had never really experienced when younger. Time and space had parted them, and with this came the consequences.

Drugs, again. A constant worry, ever since that night. The call came late one evening, from a new friend, D.I. Greg Lestrade. It was bad, Mycroft knew. He just didn’t know how bad, until he arrived.

Babbling, snarling, pacing, Sherlock was a caged animal. He tore through the little flat Mycroft had set him up in, already wrecked and disheveled as he, while Greg watched silently in something akin to awe and quiet fascination.

When Sherlock caught sight of Mycroft, he stilled, taking a deep drag on the cigarette that hung precariously from his lips, eyes shining bright, a little too bright, burning into his brother’s soul. And then he dropped his gaze and walked down the hall, muttering to himself.

Mycroft quietly ushered Greg and the rest out, thanking him, and shut the door. He sighed, turning to face the empty room, eyes wandering down the hallway where Sherlock had slunk away.

It was just the two of them now. Mycroft took a breath, straightened and walked stiffly to Sherlock’s bedroom. Without announcing himself or knocking, Mycroft opened the door and walked through.

Sherlock faced him, chin up, eyes sharp, challenging. Daring. And yet, the hurt was easy to see, if one knew where to look, which Mycroft did. He felt the air go out of him as he softly shut the door behind him.

“Sherlock-”

“ _Piss off_ ,” was the snappish reply, but his little brother’s shoulders slumped just slightly, and Mycroft took this as hope. Taking a step forward, careful not to cross any invisible lines, he tried again.

“Sherlock.” Quietly, but stern. His little brother turned away, a scowl of perfected rebellion on his angelic face. Mycroft tilted his head, looked around. He found a chair, slid it up, sat. He waited, until Sherlock obliged him by sitting on the edge of the bed. He took a cinematically dramatic puff on his cigarette, some French thing that filled the room with blue smoke, and placed it precariously on the edge of a tea saucer currently being used as a makeshift ashtray. Still, the younger Holmes would not face his brother. Mycroft sighed.

“This is foolish,” he muttered, running a hand through the sparse hair age had left him. Sherlock snorted, but otherwise, did not respond. Mycroft reached out, and lay his hand lightly over Sherlock’s knee. The reaction was violent.

“Don’t _touch_ me!” Sherlock hissed, jerking away, standing. He paced in the tiny space between his bed and the wall, muttering to himself incoherently as Mycroft watched, mouth slightly hanging in surprise. He brought the spurned hand back to his own lap, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“Okay. Alright, Sherlock, if that is what you want,” he agreed quietly, and Sherlock turned, letting out a barking laugh. The harshness of it made Mycroft wince.

“Oh, that’s precious. Since when do you give a shit about what _I_ want?”

It wasn’t just a question, it was an accusation. Mycroft blinked, staring up at his baby brother, suddenly transformed into a raging beast. He licked his lips.

“Sherloc-”

“Just get out,” came the heart-wrenching reply, quiet and broken. Mycroft stood, and Sherlock nodded, eyes shut tight.

“Yes, that’s right. Get out. _Leave_. It’s what you do best, isn’t it?” He threw himself onto the bed, comforter puffing up around his long, limp body. Rolling onto his side, Sherlock faced away from his brother. He shivered, and coughed. 

Mycroft made no indication of leaving, he simply joined his brother on the bed. Sitting behind him, he sighed, his own shoulders slumping in an almost defeated way. He glanced towards the forgotten cigarette, taking a chance to stub it out, with a disapproving frown. Both men were quiet, and Mycroft glanced around the room, biding his time.

“I thought you were leaving,” Sherlock finally voiced, and Mycroft smiled, glancing over his shoulder and into his brother’s eyes. He tugged the blankets up closer around the man’s shoulders.

“No, Sherlock. I’m not going anywhere. I already told you, I will always be here for you. I always have been.”

“Except when I needed you.”

The words are so quiet, mumbled into and around cloth, Mycroft could chose to pretend he never heard them. Move on to other things, taking in plenty of liquids, rest, things of that nature. But he doesn’t. He keeps a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, over the covers, and plays the game.

“When was that, ‘Lock?”

“You know when,” Sherlock mutters like an insolent five year old, tugging the blankets just to make Mycroft move his hand away. The eldest Holmes is glad his brother has once more turned away, or he would have spotted the look of absolute pain that crossed his features.

“Oh, Sherlock,” he whispers, hanging his head. Hot tears stung his eyes, and he was eternally grateful when Sherlock moved behind him, distracting him before they could actually fall. 

Long, graceful arms wrapped themselves comfortably around Mycroft’s waist, and he felt his brother’s curls tickling the nape of his neck as Sherlock rested his head. They stayed like that for some time, neither moving, save Mycroft reaching out to lay a shaky hand on his brother’s forearm. He was cool to the touch.

Mycroft was surprised to feel Sherlock clutch tightly at his jacket, wrapping and bunching it in his violinist’s fingers. What didn’t surprise him was this little about-face. It never failed, Sherlock flew and flew, until his wings were scorched, and he fell. And Mycroft tried so very hard to catch him, and put out the flames.

Mycroft tilted his head down to watch Sherlock manipulate the cloth, as Sherlock’s other hand moved, brushing the exposed skin of his brother’s wrist, right below the suit sleeve. Mycroft inhaled sharply, closing his eyes as his head swam. 

“Sherlock, please-”

“Yes. Please.” Insistent, but not rushing. He traced tiny circles onto Mycroft’s skin, who shivered. Mycroft remained still, not fleeing, not stopping his brother, but not quite reciprocating. He opened his eyes, found Sherlock’s face taking up his field of vision.

He was better prepared this time as Sherlock’s head dipped, less surprised when he felt pressure upon his lips, chaste, gentle. Sherlock allowed his own to part, taking a breath, exhaling warm air across his brother’s mouth. His eyes were open, and he watched Mycroft carefully.

“ _My_ ,” he murmured, begging. It was in his tone, in the flecks of color that shattered his barely visible irises. It was the way his fingers clung tightly to Mycroft’s suit, as if fearing the man would disappear should he be released. 

A hand appeared along the side of Sherlock’s face, and the man hungrily nuzzled against it, closing his eyes. Mycroft watched, almost in a daze, as his fingers traced a map along the delicate jawbone. Sherlock let his mouth fall open, and made a sound Mycroft had never imagined his brother making.

“You’ve never known,” he began, shaking his head, fingers now playing over the impossibly long neck, creating a new melody. “Never realized, how perfect you are, how brilliant,” he whispered on, fingers tracing the border of a dirty tee-shirt, a sharp collar bone. Sherlock whimpered. 

“I should have told you,” Mycroft said, swallowing thickly around a sudden lump that had formed in his throat. Sherlock’s hands pushed his jacket open, searching for him. 

“Told me what?” he mumbled, not paying attention anymore, instead focusing his efforts at the little buttons that kept them apart, starting with the top one. Mycroft took his brother’s hands together in his own, and lowered them gently. He stared into Sherlock’s eyes, and the moment lingered.

“What you are,” he answered softly, giving the trembling fingers a reassuring squeeze. “To me. That I love you,” he whispered, watching as Sherlock’s eyes closed so tightly that his brows bunched, as if in pain. 

He took his brother’s face in his hands gently, and leaned, closing the space between them, bringing his own lips willingly to Sherlock’s. Eyes opened wide in surprise, then closed slowly, now freed hands clutching for Mycroft’s shoulders, tugging him impossibly closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear with me as I stumble through! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I feel this chapter is a bit short, so I may change it later.  
> Where Sherlock wakes up, and Mycroft is gone.

Sherlock barely had time to process what was happening, even as he unconsciously found himself pulling at the sleeves of his brother’s suit, in an attempt to disrobe him. He heard a soft chuckle, and paused, opening his eyes to find Mycroft smiling at him with utter adoration, and a little wonder.

He stiffened slightly as Mycroft removed his hands, ready to once again flee at any sign of dismissal. However, Mycroft simply pulled his jacket off, and replaced one hand along his brother’s frail side, pulling him close. The other trailed around Sherlock’s back, as he lay them both down carefully.

They kept their eyes on one another, murmuring quiet whispers of adoration to each other in the fading of the day’s luster. The last rays of sunlight were cast across the bed, illuminating Sherlock’s hair into a dark halo, making his pale skin seem translucent. What was left of the still smoldering cigarette lent it’s smokey blue-grey tendrils to the space around them, highlighted in the twilight. It was the same shade as Sherlock’s eyes.

“You are so beautiful,” Mycroft gasped softly, never quite prepared for the shock of it, his hand brushing a dark, errant curl away from his brother’s forehead. Sherlock gazed up at him, slightly distracted as his fingers finished their previous work, and he slipped the pristine dress shirt from off his brother’s wide shoulders.

“ _My_ ,” he groaned, in low, needful voice, fingers splaying over the flesh, molding it beneath his hands. Mycroft was warm, as always, and there was a great comfort in it, along with the familiar and heady scent that Sherlock always recalled as being distinctly his brother’s.

They kissed again, Mycroft shifting to slide one hand up under Sherlock’s head, fingers playing with his curls. Sherlock wrapped one leg over his brother’s thigh, and leaned into the bigger man.

For a moment, time had stopped. Wrapped in each other, the rest of the world, and the troubles within, became forgotten. They broke their kiss, and Sherlock tugged the filthy tee-shirt over his head, tossing it to the floor quickly before eagerly returning to Mycroft, who was awaiting him with an embrace. The sunlight faded, casting darkness where there once was light, engulfing the cast of this forbidden play in it’s shadows.

When Sherlock awoke in the morning, Mycroft was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, forgive me for any mistakes. Kudos and comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading, will be updating as I can.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does Mycroft a favor.

_Sherlock was twenty-nine, and Mycroft thirty-seven._

Time and work had pulled them away from each other, and Mycroft felt it was for the best. Their one moment together, over five years past, was never brought up. On an occasional Christmas, they would come together, as family did during the holidays. They spoke of work, of cases, of international crisis. They spoke _at_ each other, not to one another. They talked of things, detached of feelings. The distance between them grew. Sherlock moved to a new flat, further away. Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to sell the old one.

Mycroft enlisted his baby brother to infiltrate a highly guarded compound in Russia. There were whispers of a terrorist attack. It was thwarted in three months time, and Sherlock returned home.

When he came to Mycroft, at the Diogenes Club, he was thinner than usual, paler. His alabaster skin had a sickly tint to it, and that which was visible had the distinct yellow and blue markings of spattered bruising. Mycroft immediately felt responsible.

“No trouble then, I take it?” He brushed off his concern and sentiment, instead deciding to play the detached government official. Sherlock cast him knowing eyes, but simply nodded.

“No, no trouble at all,” he said casually, coming around the desk to stand beside Mycroft. He swore he could feel the warmth radiating off the man.

“Was there anything else?” Mycroft inquired quietly, glancing up from his paperwork, of which there was plenty. Sherlock had managed to kill two very high ranking threats on the watch list, and Mycroft needed to finish his report by the end of the week.

“Yes, actually. There is,” Sherlock replied, easing himself down onto the corner of the large desk, a trait he knew Mycroft deplored. It was confirmed by the grimace that crossed the older man’s features as he sighed.

“Well, get on with it.” Mycroft’s nerves had been thoroughly shot, worrying over his brother’s condition, his safety, and the mission. Now that it was over, he simply wanted to wrap everything up in a neat package, and forget about the whole thing. 

Until next time.

“ _My._ ”

Mycroft visibly stiffened, his hand faltering, fountain pen dipping, creating a black mark. He frowned, thought, _bugger._

When he looked up, Sherlock was gazing down at him with the same sorrowful, needful eyes he had seen before, the same lost longing he had tried and failed to forget. Mycroft found himself fighting to breathe.

“We can’t.” It was the only weak response he could offer, turning his head away. He fiddled with the pen, a tool of distraction, the report suddenly unimportant. Sherlock shifted on the desk, bumping Mycroft’s leg with his knee as he stood.

“Of course.” Sherlock’s voice was so small, so very far away, Mycroft felt surprised when he looked up to see his little brother still standing beside him. On shaky legs, Mycroft stood, a few inches shorter than his brother, and only a few inches away.

He extended his hand, to which Sherlock looked blankly down at. Refusing it, he turned in silence and walked out, leaving Mycroft to collect himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for this work being quite a bit shorter than I had anticipated, but this is what I had, so this is what I gave. Hope you like it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft returns the favor.

_Mycroft was nearly forty_ , and Sherlock came to him for help.

“I just want to know,” he stated, uncertain and unsure. Mycroft peered over his desk at Parliament to regard his little brother. 

“Want to know _what_ , exactly?” he asked, although he already knew. Sherlock’s body language gave it away. He had just met this man, and already Sherlock had reverted back into the timid little boy of yesteryear.

“Only what’s important,” Sherlock said quickly, a bit too quickly, wincing and turning away, finally acknowledging that his older brother was fully aware of what he was asking.

“Please, My,” he begged, and Mycroft’s heart broke. The remembrance of another time he had heard his brother’s voice so humble, so wanting, was savagely brought back to the foreground of Mycroft’s memory. He nodded, returning his attention quickly to his paperwork, a perfect example of practiced indifference. 

“If it’s so bloody important to you, of course I will,” he muttered, his demeanor breaking only for a second of a fraction, glancing up quickly to see if his knowing little brother would catch it. The fact that he did not bothered Mycroft in a way he couldn’t quite understand. 

Instead, Sherlock gave a silent thanks, slipping away from Mycroft one last time.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaves off with A Study in Pink

_That day, Sherlock moved in with John Watson_ , Mycroft finding no reason why he should not.

One look, that was all it took. One look, and Mycroft knew, this was _the one_. The one who would take his broken baby brother from him, the man who would take Mycroft’s place in Sherlock’s heart. And he knew, in this moment, and Mycroft felt something inside him break apart, and a piece of himself slide away forever.

Purposely, perhaps out of some unconscious need to express the forbidden relief of emotion, Sherlock’s older brother threw the ex-Army doctor off guard. He inquired as to any form of a connection between his brother, and the man’s self. A burning, confusing warmth of satisfaction bloomed in Mycroft’s chest at the uncertainty that crept over the short, built, altogether too blonde man before him. With a smirk, he finished his statement.

“… Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

The confusion washed into something else entirely, and Mycroft took a different approach.

“Who are you?”

“An interested party,” he answered honestly, omitting, _concerned_.

And then Mycroft went on the defensive, poking, testing. He almost lost his composure when John fired back, “Well, thank God you’re above all that.”

They were momentarily interrupted when John’s phone chimed out.

Mycroft was impressed inwardly, at the man’s loyalty. And after that, he resigned himself to the idea, not because he wanted to, but because he understood it would happen regardless, and because it was for the best.

It was shortly thereafter, John killed his first man protecting Sherlock Holmes. It gave Mycroft hope. 

They met, a few hours later, the three of them, together on the street. He and Sherlock spoke in an almost cryptic code.

“What are you doing here?” _I’m glad you came._

“As ever, I’m concerned about you.” _I told you, I’ll always be there for you._

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your concern.” _Thank you._

On the surface, everything seemed fine. And so Mycroft believed it would be, in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read and enjoyed it! Feedback is life!


End file.
